


Shadows Cast

by doodlegirll



Category: Pocahontas (1995)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ethnocentrism, F/M, Racism, Racism is bad kids, Racist Language, Sexism, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2175084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodlegirll/pseuds/doodlegirll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if, at the Hunt Ball, instead of a bear baiting, there was a prisoner?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VeronicaVonTussell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeronicaVonTussell/gifts).



> I first began writing this in July of 2013 as a birthday present for one of my best friends, Kayla. On one of our epic Disney movie nights with our friend Airyn, we had endured the absolute atrocity and crime against childhood that is "Pocahontas 2: Journey to a New World" together, and we couldn't help but quip what could have made the story better as we went along. I had promised to write her a story long before this, and it was thusly decided that I would write her an alternate ending to the sequel, thusly "fixing" it for her birthday. 
> 
> ...that was over a year ago, and the story is still in production! However, it garnished quite a bit of interest over on FF.net, so I figured, why not post it here as well? (I am also in the process of transferring a select few of my FF.net fanfictions to AO3.) It is currently six chapters long, with chapter seven in the run now, on top of the WTNV fic I am currently focusing most of my attention to. However, I promised Kayla I would eventually finish it, so rest assured, eventually, I will finish it, true to my word. 
> 
> So, that being said, enjoy what I have so far. :)

All things considered, things were going well.

Of course, the dress she wore was heavy, hard to maneuver, and held an unnatural feeling, however beautiful it was, and she found that she was still having a bit of a problem keeping her balance in the tight, high-heeled shoes that constantly pinched her feet. But she had managed to make it this far, and the King had promised to speak with her at the conclusion of the ball on the subject of stopping the armada against her people, so she decided that the night was going as well as could be expected.

Pocahontas curtsied gracefully to the man who had just completed a dance with her, and he bowed to her. She dared a glance across the room at John Rolfe, who smiled at her encouragingly as he danced with an older woman. Another gentleman approached her, and she accepted his invitation to dance despite the fact that she was growing increasingly dizzy from all the excitement and movement.

 _Forward, back, right, left. Forward, back, right, left._ She mentally reminded herself. _Don’t mess up. Forward, back, right, left. You can do this._

Just as she stepped back from the gentleman that she had been dancing with, she was suddenly caught up by yet another man, who pulled her against him forcefully, holding tightly to her hands. Pungent breath assaulted her nose, and she recoiled as far as she could away from the revolting man that currently held her against her will as she remained in-step with him, refusing to allow him to think that he had caught her off guard.

“My, my, my,” Ratcliffe crooned. “Don’t you look lovely? I almost didn’t recognize the real you in there. I do hope no one else does.”

Pocahontas glared at him.

“I was going to say the same thing about _you._ ” She spat.

Swiftly she yanked her hand from his, and raised the heel of her shoe, bringing it down on his foot with a gratifying _crunch._ Ratcliffe gasped in pain, and released her. Seizing her only chance, Pocahontas quickly pushed away from him. Gathering her skirts, she retreated, as fast as was permissible, from the vile governor.

“It’s a good thing Smith is dead.” Ratcliffe called nonchalantly after her as she walked away. “Seeing how disloyal your heart is would undoubtedly kill him _.”_

The cruel words hit their mark on her heart like the cut of a knife, and she whirled around to face Ratcliffe, a nasty grin on his face. She blinked away the tears that suddenly flooded her eyes, and as badly as she wanted to march right up to the man and slap the smug smile from his face, she knew that doing so would only create a scene, and would only hinder her in the effort of peace for her people.

She would not give this man the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt her, just as he had intended.

So instead, she stalked away, her heart hammering painfully in her chest.

She set her eyes on the window at the far end of the room, and walked towards it, smiling politely at those who nodded at her respectfully.

If only her people could see her now. What would they think? Would they be proud of her for standing up for them, for proving to the English King that they were a civilized people worthy of recognition and respect? What would they think of the dress she wore, the makeup Mrs. Jenkins had applied to her skin to make it appear lighter?

Or would they be repulsed at her swift transformation from the daughter of the great Chief Powhatan to a regular English citizen, acting as though she were one of them? Would they cast her away? Would they think that she was ashamed of them, that she had put them behind her as a part of her past, because she had paled her skin and donned the clothing of an Englishwoman? She had even cast aside her mother’s necklace, allowing yet another part of her old life to be taken away from her.

And what would _he_ think if he could see her now? Would he, too, be disappointed in her for giving in so easily? For allowing herself to become caught up within the revelries and formalities of the life he had scorned, of the life he had never wanted?

Deep in her heart, she was terrified that what Ratcliffe had said, however cruel, was true. John Smith had loved her as she was, not for who she could be, or could _pretend_ to be, as the people at this ball loved her. They loved the _idea_ of her: a savage princess taken from the forests and heathen ways of the New World and made into a shining, civilized, and graceful lady in English society. They did not know her as she truly was. They did not know her ways, her life, or the names of those she loved and held dear. And she doubted they cared.

Pocahontas shook her head and continued on her way towards the window.

She gazed out through the panes of glass into the garden below, wishing that there were lighting so that she could see the immenseness of it all, as well as the beauty she knew it held. It was so peaceful, there away from the stuffiness of the ballroom, and she longed to be with it, the grass between her toes and the fresh air tousling her raven hair, now done up in curls and held in place with more pins than she could count.

As she continued to take in the scene below her, something in her peripheral vision caught her attention.

Her eyes were drawn to the wall that surrounded the palace, where a shadowed figure huddled in the darkness. The figure stood as still as a stone for many moments, until finally it turned and walked away, towards the other side of garden. Even from a distance, Pocahontas could see that it was a man, tall and muscular, despite being concealed beneath a billowing cloak.

She squinted her eyes and moved to step closer to the window when she felt someone reach out and lightly touch her elbow. She gasped and spun around to find John Rolfe smiling at her.

“Sorry.” He said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, it’s alright.” Pocahontas said, turning back to face the window. “Did you see that?”

“See what?” Rolfe asked, frowning.

“There was a man down there, in the garden.” Pocahontas said. “By the wall. I couldn’t see his face.”

Rolfe pressed his face against the glass, bringing up a hand to aid in blocking out some of the light that provided a glare, and looked intently below for several seconds before stepping back and shaking his head.

“I don’t see anyone.” He said.

“But he was there, just now!” Pocahontas insisted. “He was hesitating by the back wall, and then he walked off, towards the other end of the garden. I’m sure he was there!”

“It was probably just a guard, making his rounds.” Rolfe assured her. “Think nothing of it, Pocahontas.”

“But – ”

Just as she opened her mouth to protest, the sound of a bell being run interrupted her, followed by the bellowing call of one of the servants.

“Dinner is served!”

Rolfe smiled at her, and held out his arm. “Well, shall we?” He said, gesturing towards the majestic doorway that would lead them into the dining area. “The Hunt Ball has the grandest feast of any other. I also hear that the King has arranged for there to be entertainment while we eat…”

Pocahontas said nothing, and took his arm, allowing him to lead her along with the other throngs of people, and she tried to smile as he continued to prattle on, the stranger in the garden momentarily forgotten. He led her towards the long table piled high with strange and curious foods that Pocahontas had never seen before, let alone tasted, and Rolfe pulled out a chair for her to sit. She smiled gratefully at him as she went to sit, but an attendant quickly rushed to stop her.

“Oh, no, my dear.” He said. “You are a guest of the King. Guests such as you always sit at the King’s right hand.”

Confused, Pocahontas looked to Rolfe for an answer. He gestured for her to follow the attendant, who led her to the seat on the right side of the King. He pulled the chair back as Rolfe had, and she sat. King James spoke with an man dressed elaborately in puffy clothes directly across from her, the fabric dyed shades of purple that Pocahontas had never known. Queen Ann, seated next to the King, smiled at her kindly. As she glanced around the rest of the room, she noticed that Ratcliffe had seated himself only a few chairs down from her adjacent side, and he was looking directly at her, a spiteful grin on his face. Pocahontas quickly averted her eyes, unable to stand the thought of enduring another moment with the repulsive governor that had caused her such grief, despite his being much too close for comfort. Her stomach twisted, and she suddenly became very aware of the corset that pinched her ribs, and how suffocating it was beginning to feel.

After everyone had settled themselves into their seats, the King stood.

“Welcome, welcome, and thank you all for attending!” He said, his voice echoing through the room as the guests quieted. “Please, enjoy the feast!” He sat himself back into his chair and the chatter from around the room started up again.

Pocahontas looked down at the bowl that had been set before her, and picked up the spoon. The bundle of nerves that she had thought she had gotten under some sort of control again began to make themselves known, and she silently prayed to the Great Spirit that she made it through the rest of the night.  

 The King turned to look at her, reaching out to pat her hand gently.

“And how has your night fared, my dear?” He asked her. “I do hope you are enjoying the ball! You seemed to be quite popular among the other guests. Where did you learn to dance with such precision?”

“John Rolfe taught me.” Pocahontas answered honestly.

The King raised an eyebrow, and she swallowed, wondering for a moment if she had said the right thing.

“You were an absolute natural! Perhaps there is much that your people can learn about the ways of my kingdom, don’t you agree?” The King said, grinning widely at the nobleman at his side, who nodded in agreement.

Pocahontas gritted her teeth, clenching her spoon tightly in her hand. She smiled stiffly, despite the rage that boiled deep in her chest for the bigoted way the King had spoken of her people, trying to desperately to hold onto the ropes of her composition that were one-by-one beginning to slip from her grasp.

 _Remember that he only knows what he has been told._ She reminded herself patiently. _Show him that there is much that can be learned from you as well._

“Your Majesty,” she spoke slowly, so as to allow her anger to abate before she continued. “There is much to discuss about—”

“All in due time, my dear!” The King said as he took a long sip from the goblet of wine before him. “I promised to speak with you about the armada at the conclusion of the ball, did I not?”

Pocahontas opened her mouth to respond, but the King continued on.

“Yes, yes I did, and I assure you I am a man of my word. For now, enjoy the feast! The roasted duck is to _die for.”_

At that moment, Ratcliffe appeared at the King’s side, his hands behind his back casually as he addressed the King.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “I have been told that the dinner entertainment has arrived.”

“Ah, yes, wonderful!” King James said gleefully as he took yet another drink of wine. “Do send them in!”

Ratcliffe bowed as well as he could with his round belly, and he looked pointedly at Pocahontas, who glared at him contemptuously.

“I believe you’ll enjoy tonight’s entertainment, my dear.” He said, his voice sickly sweet and calm. “Haven’t you ever heard of a bear baiting? It is absolutely to—”

Before Ratcliffe could finish, or before Pocahontas could inquire as to what, exactly, a bear baiting was, there was a sudden _BANG_ as the doors at the other end of the dining room were thrown open, the heavy wooden doors banging and bouncing off the walls as they made contact. Three guards came hurrying inside, two of them supporting a fourth figure between them, holding tightly to his upper arms as they pulled him forward, his feet dragging on the marble floor.

Pocahontas suppressed a gasp. It was the man from the garden! He was still dressed in his long, dark grey cloak, and she couldn’t see any distinguishing features, but she was certain it was the same man she had seen not an hour before. The guards stopped as they neared the King, and the figure slumped between them, his knees to the floor.

“What is the meaning of this?!” King James demanded, his face red and puffy with anger. “How _dare_ you interrupt the Hunt Ball feast in such a manner as this!”

“Forgive us, Your Majesty.” The third guard not holding the cloaked figure said, bowing respectfully. “But we found this man sneaking around in the hallways of the palace, and when we spotted him he gave chase. It appears that he climbed the outer wall and gained access there.”

“A common thief, no doubt.” Ratcliffe guessed, rolling his eyes.

“You know that you’re to take any apprehended suspects to the prisons upon arrest!” The King said, his voice biting.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The third guard agreed. “But we believe that he is much more than he seems. We decided it best that you see this.”

The third guard walked forward towards the man that knelt, unmoving, between his comrades, and grasped the hood that covered his face. With a swift flick of his wrist, he removed the hood of the cloak, and there was a collective gasp throughout the room as the identity of the prisoner was finally revealed.

Pocahontas felt her stomach drop to the floor, her heart hammering so loudly in her chest that she was almost positive everyone else in the room could hear it as she stared at the prisoner hanging unconscious between his captors.

It was John Smith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: John Smith is alive?! What the hell, man?!


	2. Chapter 2

For what seemed like an eternity, no one said a word. Silence permeated the air like a knife, in a deafening scream, and the only sound to be heard was the scrapping of the wooden legs of the King’s chair on the marble floor as he leapt to his feet.

 _“John Smith!_ ” He demanded in a high-pitched voice twinged with shock. “How can this be?!”

Pocahontas found herself unable to tear her eyes away from the man that hung limply between the two guards before her. Every emotion conceivable swam around in her heart and mind all at once, desperately grappling for the dominate spot that would determine where she would proceed from there. Eventually, after a few moments, they settled themselves into a single, clear statement that sent chills of excitement and anxiety throughout her body:

_He’s alive._

Finally, she turned her attention away from John Smith back to the King as he rounded on Ratcliffe.

“Explain this!” He demanded. “Was it not you that reported to me that he was dead nearly a year ago?!”

Ratcliffe, who looked shocked and devoid of explanation, shook his head slightly and cleared his throat.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he finally stammered, and Pocahontas could not help but notice that he was beginning to look more and more uneasy as his lies began to resurface. “After witnessing his fall into the Thames, no body was ever discovered, so it was assumed that he had drowned and was washed away into the Atlantic.”

The King, still red in the face, allowed this to sink in before nodding. “Yes, this is true.” He conceded. “However, how is that he is here, now?”

“I do not know.” Ratcliffe answered, as his glowering gaze was lowered to John Smith.

“Well, I demand to know!” The King said. He nodded to the three guards that held the prisoner within their firm grasps. “Take him to the Tower! I want him interrogated as soon as he is awake and able to communicate! I want answers!” He looked back at Ratcliffe. “I’m placing you in charge of seeing to it that I get them. Use any means necessary.”

Ratcliffe bowed, sweeping his hand outwards towards the King.

“With pleasure, Your Majesty.”

The cold tone of his voice turned Pocahontas’s blood to ice. She had seen what this man was capable of, of what he was able to convince other people of, and it terrified her to the core. Was he not the one that was acting against her people, the one telling the King of their “savage” ways in an effort to eliminate them all? Was it not him that had stolen the man she loved from her? She had lost John Smith to him once, and she was not going to allow him to take him a second time.

“Take him away!” The King commanded, and the guards bowed before they began to drag John from the room.

Pocahontas saw her only chance, and she seized it.

“Wait!” She said as she stood to her feet, her voice reverberating through the room as whispers arose around her. All eyes turned to her, and she swallowed the lump that had formed at the back of her throat, trying to appear much braver than she felt. “You can’t!”

“Pocahontas!” King James said, obviously put off by her sudden outburst against him. “What is the meaning of this?!”

“Your Majesty,” Pocahontas said, calmly. “Why does this man deserve such a punishment?”

“He is a treasonous traitor.” The King informed her. “He is an enemy of the crown and will be treated as such.”

“But what if he is innocent?” Pocahontas asked, cautiously. “Would you truly condemn a guiltless man? Would you leave him to rot without a single word of his own say?”

“I am the King!” King James said, slamming his palms against the wood of the table and leaning against them as he glared at her furiously. “What I decide shall be!”

“And if you’re wrong?” Pocahontas countered. Many of those in the room gasped at her outright insubordination against the King of England, but she ignored them, the anger boiling deep within her fueling her further forward.

“How _dare you_!” King James spat vehemently. “I am a gracious host, I invite you to my ball, and this is how you repay me?!”

"Do your kind know nothing of punishment for those who have committed unforgivable crimes?" Ratcliffe sneered, his eyes sparkling with despicable arrogance.

His words sent hot coals of pure, unadulterated abhorrence cascading over her, and she made a silent vow that he would not get away with what he was about to do.

“You—” Pocahontas began, but the King cut her off with the sweep of his hand.

“Silence! I will hear no more of this uncivilized behavior! I will hear no more of this tonight! You are to leave immediately! You may return when you have learned your place.”

Pocahontas’s eyes widened, and she looked back at John Smith, who had begun to stir, a low moan escaping his lips. Panic began to seize her heart, and she fought against the rising feeling of hopelessness. She could feel her resolve slipping away, her bravado failing, the hope she had harbored for peace and safety for her people falling into a deep chasm of despair.

“What could a savage such as yourself have to do with a treasonous tyrant in the first place?” Ratcliffe mocked her.

Something inside of her snapped. Pocahontas raised her right hand, and abandoning all resolve, slapped him across the face.

Ratcliffe reeled backwards as another collective gasp arose. She glared at the large man in front of her, her fists clenched in anger, and she started towards him, only to be blocked by two guards that stepped in front of her, swords drawn. Ratcliffe stared at her for a moment, the shock as plain as the red handprint that was beginning to form on his left cheek, before he frowned and spat at her,

“You’ll pay for that, savage.”

He turned and looked at the guards holding John Smith.

“Take him to the Tower.” He commanded. “I will be there shortly, at the conclusion of the ball. Make sure he does not escape. I want him in one piece…for the time being.”

Pocahontas suddenly felt incredibly ill. Her intention had been to stand up for John Smith, to protect him, but instead, she had only condemned him further, allowing him to slip from her fingers into the hands of Ratcliffe, who would assuredly kill him before the sun could rise the next day. She dared a glance at him, and as she did, his eyes opened, just as blue as she remembered them, and his gaze settled on her.

His lips formed her name in a silent whisper, and she felt tears begin to well in her eyes as the guards hauled him to his feet, a grimace of pain settling across his handsome face as they did so. They pushed him back towards the doors, dragging him away from her, and she felt her heart breaking in half at the sight.

_I’m so sorry, John._

“Escort her from the premises immediately!” King James commanded. He looked at her and shook his head. “You showed much potential. Such a waste.”

With that, he turned away from her.

“Take her away.”

“No!” Pocahontas said, her voice breaking as the guards began to push her backwards, away from the King, and away from the doors through which they had taken John Smith away, out of her sight and life forever.

She tried to step around the guards, to run after him, but someone reached out and grabbed her, and pulled her backwards. She fought as hard as she could, kicking and screaming, tears running down her face, washing away the powder from her cheeks, letting words from her native language fly as she did so.

“Pocahontas,” she heard a familiar voice penetrate through the haze as she was drug into the hallway outside the ballroom. “Pocahontas, come on. Let’s go.”

She turned her head to find John Rolfe, whose brown eyes were filled with a sadness Pocahontas could not quite place. Pity? Disappointment?

“Come on. Let’s go home.” Rolfe repeated. “We’ll discuss this there.”

Pocahontas, her heart constricted painfully in her chest, hollow and aching, shook her head fervently.

“John Rolfe, we must not let them take him!” She pleaded. “Please, we must stop them!”

“Pocahontas, there is nothing we can do.” Rolfe said, gently. “But I promise we’ll talk about it, but not here.” He put his arm around her shoulder and led her towards the doors. Pocahontas, too overcome with emotion to fight him any further, allowed him to escort her quickly from the palace and into a carriage, where Rolfe told the driver to take them back to his estate at the edge of London.

Not a word was said as they traveled through the lit streets of London. Pocahontas sobbed quietly into her hands as they rode farther and farther away from the palace, King James, and the English nobility she had tried so hard to impress.

Failure settled into her stomach like a stone, and she felt as though she would lose the contents at any moment.

She had failed.

She had failed her people. Surely they would all die now, thanks to her insolence, thanks to her brash and impetuous decisions. Ratcliffe’s armada would decimate their very ways of life, bringing death in great numbers in his wake. He would show her people no mercy, of this she was sure.

She had failed John Rolfe. He had been so kind to her, despite their disagreements. He had escorted her across the ocean, provided her with stability and safety on her journey. He had taken her into his home, given her beautiful clothes to wear, had tried to teach her what she would need to learn in order to save her people. John Rolfe had only tried to help her, and she had failed him.

She had failed herself, the spirits that had guided her heart for so long. She had turned her back against them, if only for a night, and she had fallen far from grace. It saddened her deeply to envision Grandmother Willow’s face, the look of disappointment she would surely wear. Pocahontas had not listened with her heart, and she was now paying the price.

She had failed John Smith. She was sure, without a shadow of a doubt, that the only reason he had been inside the palace walls was because of her, though his motives she did not know. For the second time, she had condemned him to death, and this time, there was nothing she could do to stop it, to save him.

Suddenly, all the pain that had been building since his departure two years previous, began to culminate rapidly, and the dam burst, sending the waves of sorrow and loss washing over her, drowning her, slowly suffocating her. She choked back the sobs that shook her small body violently, crushing her soul with each breath she took.

Pocahontas felt weak, felt every ounce of strength leaving her the farther they drew from the palace where she had hoped she would find peace and hope for all those she held dear.

Despair settled itself over her like a dark cloud, trapping her within its confines. And there she allowed it to remain.

She was broken.

 

...oOo...

 

Something was very wrong. Thomas could feel it, deep in his bones.

John had been gone for a good half an hour now, and he was supposed to let Thomas know that he was alright via the signal they had agreed upon after he gained access to the palace.

As he crouched behind the large bush against the wall of the palace where the Hunt Ball was occurring, huddled in the dark, a cloak concealing his identity, twenty different scenarios continuously played themselves in his mind simultaneously. It was not like John to do this, to go so long without some sort of indication he was okay. He had made it over the wall into the gardens fine, and had told Thomas to wait and watch for his signal, but it had never come.

Thomas sighed as he carefully stood to peer up at the palace windows that rose above the walls, hoping beyond hope for John’s signal to appear, but alas, it didn’t. Thomas slowly lowered himself back into a crouching position, rubbing his gloved hands together in an effort of add a bit of warmth to them. It was not yet the middle of summer, and while the days were fine, the nights could become quite cold quite fast. He was grateful, however, that his breath could not be detected against the dark air before him.

There was the abrupt sound of doors being thrown open, and the grunts and heaves of men as they walked closer to where Thomas huddled in his hiding spot. Thomas pushed away a few of the small branches of the bush to gain a better view as light spilled into the road near the locked gate that led to the palace grounds, a good twenty feet from where he was concealed.

A carriage pulled up alongside the curb, the exterior devoid of décor, the windows barred and inescapable. With a start, Thomas realized it was the prison carriage that transported criminals to and from the Tower of London. He watched, stunned, as three guards exited through the gate, two of them holding tightly to a tall figure shrouded in a dark cloak that slumped between them, walking with some difficulty, his arms pinioned behind him with shackles. Blond hair fell across his face as the guards hauled him into a standing, more upright position, but Thomas didn’t need to see his face to know who it was.

_John._

The guards opened the back of the wagon, and roughly pushed John into it, where he fell to the floor limply, before raising his head. Thomas was too far away to see his eyes, but he could feel them burning into his skin through the leaves and branches of his hiding place. The guards slammed the door to the prison wagon shut and locked it in place.

“John Smith alive!” He heard one of the guards mutter as he slapped the wood of the carriage just before it pulled away from them. “Who woulda thunk it? Alive and well, prolly hidin’ out in the country somewheres.”

“What about that savage girl back there? Whatcha think got into ‘er?” The other guard said as they walked back through the gate, locking it behind them. Thomas could still hear their voices as they drew farther and farther away from him, and he listened carefully.

“Dunno. But I’ll tell ya one thing, ol’ Smith is in for it.” The first guard replied. “Ratcliffe’ll have his head on a stake on the London Bridge before the sunset ‘morrow, you mark my words!”

Chills ran down Thomas’s spin as cold fear settled in his stomach.

_No. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go._

After a few moments, he heard the door to the palace shut, and he waited a few extra minutes before he carefully extracted himself from the bush where he had been hiding for close to an hour. He watched as the prison carriage drove farther and farther away from him, receding into the inky darkness of the London night.

Thomas breathed deeply, weighing his options before he shook his head.

He had to get help. And fast.

Thomas waited until the prison carriage carrying his best friend and comrade was completely out of view before he turned on his heel and sprinted in the other direction.

Something had gone terribly wrong in there, and now, it was up to him to make sure that John lived to see the light of day. Everything had been shifted to his shoulders, and he’d be damned if he let his friend down.

He had to get to John Rolfe, and to Pocahontas, as soon as possible. They were John’s only hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: John Rolfe and Pocahontas return to Rolfe's estate, and speak of the events that have transpired.


	3. Chapter 3

The carriage pulled quietly into the drive of John Rolfe’s estate, stopping in front of the pathway that led to the front door. Rolfe opened the carriage door and stepped down onto the pavement, before offering his hand to Pocahontas, who gratefully accepted it. Rolfe paid the driver, and thanked him, before he once again wrapped his arm around Pocahontas, gently guiding her towards the house.

Mrs. Jenkins met them at the door, Uttamatomakkin not far behind, having opted to stay behind and dine on Mrs. Jenkins’ tea sandwiches. She smiled merrily at the pair as they walked inside and closed the door behind them, but upon seeing Pocahontas’s red rimmed eyes and smudged makeup, her smile fell.

“Oh, my dear!” She said, reaching out and taking Pocahontas’s hands in her own, squeezing them lovingly. “What happened?”

Pocahontas shook her head, unable to open her mouth to speak. Fresh tears began to make their way down her face, and she took her hands from Mrs. Jenkins’, covering her face with them.

Mrs. Jenkins looked from the distraught princess to Rolfe, who was leaning against the doorframe, his hand on his forehead.

“It was a disaster.” He said quietly. “An absolute disaster.”

“What happened, Johnny?” The elderly housekeeper implored. “It was all going so well when you left here earlier! What went wrong?”

She looked back at Pocahontas, who had sunk to her knees on the floor, the flamboyant skirts of her dress pooling around her as she continued to cry into her hands. Uttamatomakkin had crouched down next to her, protectively, and his usually stoic face held some semblance of concern at the corners of his eyes, and his usually well set frown had softened.

Rolfe sighed.

“It was going well until dinner, when guards burst in with…” He glanced at Pocahontas. “With a man they had found sneaking around the hallways.”

Mrs. Jenkins nodded, and urged him to go on.

“It was John Smith. _John Smith,_ of all people!” He shook his head and threw up his hands.

Mrs. Jenkins gasped. “But he’s dead!”

“Apparently not.” Rolfe said.

“We _have_ to help him!” All eyes turned to Pocahontas, who had stood, her hand on Uttamatomakkin’s arm for stability. She walked forward, looking up at Rolfe, her eyes hard with determination. “Please, we must help him!”

Rolfe stuttered for a moment before he gave an exasperated sigh, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I just don’t understand,” he said after a moment. “Why you’ve reacted the way you have. How do you even know the man?! Why is he worth throwing away everything you’ve worked for thus far?!”

Pocahontas looked away.

“Because I love him.” She said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. She turned her head back to face him. “I always have.”

Rolfe’s eyes widened, clearly startled by Pocahontas’s outright declaration. For a few moments, he simply stared at her, into her bright brown eyes that burned with fire and fury, alive and willing.

He nodded, slowly, as realization dawned on his face. “Ah.”

Pocahontas looked away.

“I’m sorry.” She said softly. “I never meant to hurt you.”

Rolfe, despite the growing pain in the center of his chest, gently reached out and turned her face towards him.

Normally, Pocahontas would have flinched at such a direct touch from someone she hardly knew. However, given the circumstances she leaned her cheek against his warm hand. Unknowingly seeking the comfort that it brought his steady hand slowly calming her nerves.

“I never meant to hurt you,” she repeated blinking back more tears.

“I know,” John Rolfe whispered despite the lump that was growing in his throat. “How did this come about?”

A forlorn sigh left her lips as Mrs. Jenkins guided them in to the sitting room where she retold the story of how she and John Smith had met. She told them the tall tale, not bothering to leave out the personal details of who Kocoum was, and how he had exactly gotten killed.

“When my father released him,” Pocahontas continued accepting the cup of tea that the housekeeper handed her, “I remember feeling so relieved. I remember feeling so, so happy and sure that John and I had nearly done the impossible. We had stopped a war! Then Ratcliffe… John must have seen him aim his gun at my father because the next thing I knew he was on the ground, bleeding out.”

“What was Ratcliffe’s reaction?” Rolfe inquired.

“He blamed him for stepping in his way. Although, he did looked shocked for a fleeting moment, before the others revolted against him and took him away.”

John Rolfe slowly nodded, “I see.”

“I am amazed he had the courtesy to look surprised,” Mrs. Jenkins snapped, her usually sweet demeanor failing for a brief moment. “That man has always had such a nasty disposition.”

Though Mrs. Jenkins’ words were meant to be in agreement, they merely caused a shiver of dread to move through Pocahontas’s body.

“We have to do something,” She said trying to dispel the unpleasant images out of her mind of what could possibly be happening to her John in the Tower.

“If only we could find a way for the King to listen to you,” Rolfe mused quietly. “But I’m afraid he’ll hear nothing of it until after John Smith has been…”

A sharp rap came on the heavy door, quite suddenly, urgent and loud. Immediately, everyone in the room tensed as the knock came again while Pocahontas’s eyes, full of a mixture of fear and determination looked towards the direction of the sound.

John Rolfe very slowly stood to his feet at the rapping continued, and walked towards the door, where he placed his hand on the knob.

Apprehension filled the air for the few short seconds it took for him to swiftly yank open the door and face the intruder outside. Pocahontas felt her heart begin to beat wildly once more, and she was terrified for a moment that it would be guards waiting outside, preparing to take her away to the Tower herself, where she was sure she could do nothing in the way of helping John.

All of these fears were laid to rest, however, when a young man stepped through the door, clad in a similar fashion as John had been at the palace when he had been captured. In his hands he clutched a battered green cap, balling it into his fists as he stood before them.

While it had been nearly a year since she had last seen him, and his face now donned the beginnings of a neat goatee, the weight on Pocahontas’s shoulders suddenly became much lighter, and she couldn’t stop the wild smile as she, too, stood to greet the familiar stranger.

“Thomas!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: John Smith is given luxurious accommodations in the Tower of London.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains some violence/torture, and some racist language is dealt.

John was having a hard time retaining the consciousness that he had been so violently flushed back into as the carriage jostled through the quiet streets of London. His head throbbed from where the guard at the palace had hit him with the butt of his gun, and black dots swam in his vision, his eyes refusing focus. He laid still, curled into a ball, on the wood floors of the carriage, and tried to comprehend what, exactly, had happened to land him in the situation in which he currently found himself.

He had only wanted a glimpse of her. Nothing more. Meeting with her, speaking to her, would come later.

How badly his plan had failed.

Initially, the plan had been that he and Thomas would wait until the Hunt Ball had progressed well into the night, and he would sneak over the wall of the palace grounds and gain entry into the palace itself, where he would find his way towards the grand ballroom, after giving the signal - a small mirror's flash - to Thomas below that he was alright.

He hadn't made it that far.

The details leading up to his capture were fuzzy, and the harder he tried to recall all that had happened, the more his head hurt.

John remembered making it into the palace via the door that led from the gardens into the building, and just as he was pulling the mirror from his pocket, he had been spotted. He had made a run for it, but the guards gave chase, and caught up with him easily, grabbing him from behind. Panic had taken over, and he had fought to get away, but one of the guards, in an effort to subdue him, had struck him on the back of the head. The next thing he knew, he was in the ballroom, and there she was, the one woman that he was certain he'd trek the earth a thousand times over to be with.

And even then, she was fighting for him, trying to protect him. Despite the frilly dress, ridiculous hairstyle, and makeup that made her skin a sickly shade of white, she was still just as stunning and beautiful as she had been two years ago. She was still the amazing woman he had fallen in love with.

The look on her face when they locked eyes had told him so much.

The carriage suddenly lurched to a stop, and John, unable to catch himself, slammed into the wall. Nausea suddenly boiled from deep within his stomach, and he groaned as he fought hard to control it, pressing his cheek against the floor, willing it to go away. After a few moments, he heard voices outside, and the door opened, revealing four armed guards standing outside. Two of them leaped inside and grabbed John by the arms, harshly pulling him to his feet. His head spun, and he stumbled dizzily as they pushed him from the wagon into the street below, where two other guards grabbed him and pushed him forward. As everything began to swim into focus, John looked around to gather his bearings. He had known, from the moment he had regain consciousness, that they were bringing him to the Tower; of course, where else would the prison wagon take him but to his death?

He was dragged into the corridors of the Tower from one of the street entrances, and forced to climb a flight of stairs. He kept his eyes trained on the floor below him, making sure each step he took, however forced, were careful and methodical, and his aching body was far too exhausted to put up any sort of fight. Before long, they reached a cell into which he was roughly shoved. The ropes that had acted as a temporary restraint were removed, and in their place, manacles that hung from the ceiling were locked around his wrists.

And there they left him, alone with nothing but his muddled mind for company.

As time passed, the pain in his head slowly subsided, and he was able to see and think much more clearly than before. He began trying to formulate a plan to escape, but after a few good tugs at the chains that tethered him, he found that his chances of succeeding were little to none. They most certainly didn't do things by halves here in the Tower.

He let his mind wander to Thomas back at the palace. Surely he had seem him being taken away? He had looked in the direction of the bush where Thomas had been hiding before they had locked the carriage door, praying that his friend had not abandoned hope when the signal had not come and left. And surely if he had seen John being thrown into the wagon and driven away, he could have worked out why John's signal had failed, and gone for help?

John shook his head. Thomas had been a vital ally to him the past few months, invaluable in resources, loyalty, and camaraderie. He was glad that if he had to fall, his friend did not have to fall with him. Thomas had done so much for him; he did not deserve the fate John knew awaited him when Ratcliffe arrived at the conclusion of the Hunt Ball. He would show him no mercy.

And Pocahontas, was she alright? He had heard her screaming when they had dragged him from the dining room, shouting curses, including a few phrases he knew quite well in her native language. He knew that King James would not take lightly to such behavior, especially from someone who was supposed to be a diplomat and example. Would she be punished for her insubordination against the King? He had heard the King demand she be escorted from the premises immediately, and he assumed that John Rolfe would be the one to do so, taking her back to his estate where she would be safely tucked away from the prying eyes of the English bureaucracy that would do nothing but scorn and gossip about her when they knew nothing of her life, of who she was, of what she stood for.

It angered him to think about, that here she was, being paraded about like an exotic animal on display, as though she were less of a human being than the rest of them. How proud the King must be, that he had plucked her from the wilderness of Virginia and turned her into the shining glory of English society. Pocahontas was nothing more to the King than a trophy, a prize.

He supposed he could not hold the King to such contempt as he did. It was not the King's fault that he did not know Pocahontas as John knew her; in fact, it was by mere chance, nothing short of a  _miracle,_ that John himself had been granted the privilege of experiencing her and her world. But he could not help it. She was so much more than they thought they knew, so much more than the lies Ratcliffe told of her.

He had never loved another human being as fiercely as he loved her.

And he prayed, that if he had to die, for real this time, she would be able to be safe.

Eventually, his exhausted mind could take no more, and John allowed himself to nod off into sleep.

...oOo...

He was awakened to the sound of voices outside his cell door. John was not sure how much time had passed between the time he had nodded off and now, but he was scarcely granted any time to care. He heard the door of his cell being opened, and the clicks of boots as they walked across the cobblestones to where he still stood, his legs achy and numb from standing for so long. He swallowed, refusing to look at the owner of the shoes that appeared before him, knowing full and well who it was they belonged to.

Something cold was placed beneath his chin, and with a swift motion, his face was lifted to meet the eyes of the one man he hated most in the world, the one man that had taken everything from him, the one man that planned on murdering his beloved's people, completely wiping them off the face of the earth, that had tried twice now to do away with him and had failed. He knew that now he was completely at Ratcliffe's mercy, and if he saw it fit to make sure John did not see another sunrise, so it would be. John gritted his teeth as the bottom of the cane remained planed firmly against his lower jaw, glaring furiously as Ratcliffe chuckled darkly, his fists clenched in the chains that bound him.

"We meet again, Smith." Ratcliffe said. "Funny, I had not expected to run into you like this."

John pulled back, away from Ratcliffe's cane, and continued to glare at the governor before him, refusing to open his mouth to speak. He had nothing to say to this man, and he knew that anything he said could be used against him, his words skewed and misappropriated to Ratcliffe's will.

_Don’t say anything he can use against Pocahontas._

Ratcliffe's eyebrows rose, and he placed his hands behind his back as he began to walk around John, eyeing him like cattle at auction.

"The King has placed me in charge of getting the answers he desires from you." He informed John. "By any means necessary. He wants to know, just as I'm sure the rest of us do, how, exactly, it is that you're alive, after nearly a year of believing you to be dead. Legally, you no longer exist. How is it that you have managed to elude being seen all this time? Have you got someone that's been helping you?"

John swallowed, still refusing to speak. Ratcliffe could do whatever he wanted to him; John was not about to give Thomas up to the gallows for assisting a fugitive.

Ratcliffe, sensing John's stubborn opposition, stopped before him, and using his cane once more, lifted the hem of John's shirt, which had come untucked, to reveal the long, jagged scar that donned John's left side from where Ratcliffe's bullet had nearly brought his life to an end. John winced involuntarily, remembering the excruciating pain that had accompanied the injury, and the many long months it had taken for him to recover.

"I see that you've recovered from our little...accident." Ratcliffe said, allowing John's shirt to fall back. He shook his head, and tsked. "What a pity. It would have saved me the trouble of interrogating you now had you died as you were supposed to a year ago."

John's only response was further glaring.

Ratcliffe cocked an eyebrow. "Not going to speak, are we?" He asked. "Well, then. I suppose we'll be forced to resort to more, shall we say, drastic measures?"

He lifted the cane in his right hand, and before John could blink, struck him - hard - in the middle of the back. John grunted in pain, and his footing stumbled, the chains on his wrists catching him from falling.

"We can do this one of two ways, Smith." Ratcliffe said smoothly, as though trying to sell a bargain. "The easy way, or the hard way. Believe me, the easy way would be much less painful for you,  _and_ your pretty little savage, being you tell me everything I want to know, and maybe,  _maybe,_ you'll live to see the gallows."

John's heart beat against his ribcage like a drum. He didn’t have to be told what “the hard way” meant. He swallowed, but still refused to speak. He knew that Ratcliffe would try anything to get some sort of rile from him, and he would not offer the vile tyrant such pleasure.

"No?" Ratcliffe inquired.

John shot him daggers.

"As you wish."

Ratcliffe looked over John's shoulder towards the door, and nodded his head. The door rattled open, and a guard appeared, a long, thick whip at his left hip above the hilt of his sword. He unwound it carefully, and before John had any time to react, a sharp _crack_ reverberated through the air, and John felt the sting of the whip as it sliced through his cotton shirt to the skin underneath, igniting every nerve in his body. He bit his lip, trying to keep himself from giving any sort of sound, but as the whip cracked again, he couldn’t contain it, and cried out.

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_

Three more times the whip connected with the flesh of his exposed back. John screamed in pain as the marks began to intersect; he could feel the blood, warm and sticky, running in rivers down his torso, the tattered remains of what was once his shirt clinging to the liquid like an seal. His back arched with every lash that was given, his knees growing more and more weak.  He gasped for breath, each gulp of air he took more agonizing than the one before. He could feel his body shaking, trying to fight away the pain.

“Do you not realize that you are completely within my absolution?” Ratcliffe said as the guard paused for a moment. “I can make all of this stop. All you have to do is give me the answers I want.”  

When he refused to answer, Ratcliffe nodded again, and the guard flicked the whip.

_Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!_

John could feel, with the blood that splattered against the cobblestones below his feet and on the walls around him, his strength, his resolve, flowing from his body. Every ounce of it slowly left him, leaving waves of nausea and blinking consciousness in its wake. Tears coursed down his face.

_Crack! Crack!_

 The pain was agonizing, burning, blinding…

_Crack!_

He didn’t know how many times the whip struck him – he lost count at fourteen. Eventually his legs gave out, and he fell, hanging by the chains, his knees just barely touching the ground. Sweat poured from his forehead down his tear-stained face, dripping from the tip of his nose, his blond hair soaked as though he had just resurfaced from a swim. For a few moments, he heaved for breath, awaited the crack of the whip and the sting that would undoubtedly accompany it, but the pain never came. Instead, Ratcliffe’s cane once again found itself beneath his chin. Ratcliffe lowered himself, albeit awkwardly, down to John’s level, making sure the young captain’s eyes were level with his. John fought back the urge to give into the splotches of darkness in the corners of his vision, gritting his teeth against the waves of nausea.

“Look at you,” Ratcliffe sneered nastily. “The mighty John Smith, defeated, condemned to death. And for what? For a tryst with a filthy savage whore?”

John could take no more.

“Her name,” he rasped. “Is Pocahontas.”

Ratcliffe smirked, and rose once more to his feet. He clicked his cane against the ground as he paced before John’s slumped form.

“Ah, yes.” He said. “This… _Pocahontas,”_ The way he spat her name only fueled John’s hatred towards the man further. “This is her fault you know.”

“Shut up.” John seethed.

“And tell me, Smith,” Ratcliffe continued, ignoring him. “Is she worth it? Is she really worth everything that you’ve ever had, everything you ever could have had? Is she worth this?” He gestured to the walls around them.

John looked him dead in the eye.

“Every drop of blood.” He answered.

Ratcliffe’s eyebrows rose, and his eyes narrowed as he smiled deviously.

“You are aware that I set sail for the New World in one week's time, under the order of King James himself, in the quest to conquer what is rightfully mine?” Ratcliffe informed him casually, and John felt his blood – that what was still in his body – run cold. “And when I arrive, I think I’ll pay the savages a little visit.”

“No.” John shook his head, unable to say anything further, lest he fall deeper into the trap Ratcliffe had laid before him. “You can’t do that.”

“Oh, and can’t I?” Ratcliffe chuckled. “I don’t believe you’re in any sort of situation to be making demands here, Smith.” He pressed the end of his cane to one of John’s lashes, and the man gasped in anguish. He removed his cane and once again came to John’s eye level. “And when I attack those filthy heathens, do you know what I’ll do? I think I’ll take your precious Pocahontas with me. But don’t worry, I won’t kill her; no, instead, I’ll force her to stand to the side, to watch, as every single one of her uncivilized savage brethren are murdered, their homes burned, their gold stolen. I’ll let her watch them writhe, right before her, as they breathe their last!” He lashed out and grabbed a handful of John’s blond hair, and pulled his head up to look at him. “And then, after I’ve got the gold that is rightfully mine, I’ll kill her, but not before I look her in the eye, and tell her how you wished you had never met her, how you cursed her name as you betrayed her.”

John’s fists clenched, and he gathered what little strength he had left, willing the chains to break, to bend to his will, so that he could strangle the bastard before him with his own hands. He felt his resolve, his will to live, coming back to him despite the agony he waded through as the lashes on his back pulled taut. He struggled against all that held him back, against the pain and blinding, heart wrenching fear that clenched at his soul, and he glared viciously at Ratcliffe.

“Ratcliffe, I swear to God, I’ll –”

“Do what?” Ratcliffe cut him off with a swift kick to the gut. “If you agree to act civilly, and answer my questions, tell me what the King wishes to know, perhaps we can reach an agreement regarding the welfare of your beloved savage.”

John swallowed, and fought against the vomit he could taste mingling with the blood at the back of his throat. His exhausted mind was hazy, his body ready to give way any moment. Despite his location kneeling at the floor, he squared his shoulders, and looked Ratcliffe in the face as he answered, “Never.”

“So be it.”

Ratcliffe flicked his wrist as he walked by the young captain, towards the door. He passed a small bag of jingling coins to the guard.

“Whip him until he’s ready to talk.” He commanded. “I’ll be waiting in the courtyard.”

With that, he left, as door behind him closed, the crack of the whip could be heard, followed by John’s cries as they echoed through the halls of the Tower, into the silent London night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Thomas enlists in the help of Rolfe and Pocahontas.


	5. Chapter 5

“Thomas!”

Within moments, Pocahontas was out of her seat, her arms encircling the confused young man before them. After a few seconds, he graciously returned the embrace before the two of them stepped apart.

“Hello, Pocahontas.” Thomas said, smiling warmly at her. Pocahontas smiled for what felt like the first time all evening, her heart allowing hope to permeate the dark cloud that had been hanging above her from the moment she had laid eyes on John Smith in the ballroom. She was grateful for the familiarity, the friendliness that Thomas represented in the sea of chaos in which she currently found herself adrift.  She opened her mouth to say something, but was cut short by Rolfe stepping between her and Thomas, protectively.

“Excuse me,” he interjected, his voice thick with suspicion. “But might I inquire as to just who you think you are?”

“John Rolfe, it’s alright.” Pocahontas said, reaching out and placing her hand on Rolfe’s shoulder. She stepped out from behind him and gestured to the red haired boy still standing in the doorway. “This is Thomas. He’s one of John Smith’s friends from Jamestown, and a friend of mine as well.”

Thomas extended his hand, and Rolfe shook it, hesitantly.

“Thomas Brown,” he nodded at Rolfe, giving him a cordial smile. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Pleasure.” Rolfe replied, giving Thomas a nod in return. “Please, come in.”

Thomas thanked him, and stepped further into the house. He replaced the battered cap to his head, and untied the strings of his cloak. Rolfe led the three of them into the seating room, where Mrs. Jenkins had, as if by magic, already prepared another pot of warm tea for the new guest.

“Please, have a seat.” Rolfe said. Thomas gratefully accepted his offer and sat down on the ottoman, Pocahontas beside him, whilst Rolfe took the large chair directly across from the two.

“Thomas, what’s going on?” Pocahontas could no longer wait for the answers to the questions that plagued her, that surged through her veins like spines. “What has happened?”

“I fear John is in danger.” Thomas answered. “I was with him at the palace, behind the wall outside of the gardens. I saw the men take him away in the prison carriage. John was supposed to send a signal to me that he had made in into the palace successfully, and when the signal never came…” Thomas trailed off, allowing Pocahontas to fill in for herself the rest of the story. She nodded knowingly.

“He was captured.” She said, softly. She looked at Thomas intently. “But why was he there in the first place?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Pocahontas?” Thomas smiled at her. “He was there for you.”

Pocahontas sighed. “I feared as much.” She whispered, mostly to herself as she shook her head. “All this time...he’s been alive. Why didn’t he ever write to me?”

“He wanted to, Pocahontas, he really did.” Thomas assured her, placing a comforting hand on her arm. “He must have started hundreds of letters. But he knew that in writing to you, he could be putting you in danger, and he couldn’t bear to see any harm come to you. That’s part of the reason he was there tonight, because he worried for your safety and the safety of your people. Ratcliffe had convinced King James that _John_ was the traitor, and after being declared dead, he knew he had to stay hidden.”

Pocahontas nodded. She understood John’s reasons, but she could not stop the smallest flutter of betrayal and anger in the depths of her racing heart.

Thomas must of sensed this, as he shook his head.

“Even I didn’t know he was alive until I returned to London.” He assured her. “I would have told you, had I known anything, even if he had asked me not to. Do you remember the letter I received from my father nearly a year ago?”

Pocahontas remembered. “Your mother was sick. Is she alright?”

Thomas nodded.

“She was never ill in the first place.” He said. “Unbeknownst to me, John had been in correspondence with my family upon his return two years ago after he had been released from the hospital. After he had been declared legally dead, he contacted my father and asked if he would help him to get in touch with me so that I could help him expose the lies Ratcliffe had been telling the king. I boarded the ship to England believing my mother was near death only to find John waiting for me when I arrived, my mother in perfect health.”

He shook his head, smirking as he did so. “I’ll have you know, when I found him alive, I punched him square in the jaw, for not telling you the truth.”

Pocahontas was unable to hold back a smile. Thomas had become a good friend to her, and to her people, since John’s departure from Jamestown, and had been a crucial player in making sure that no conflicts arose between her people and the settlers. Her smile faltered, however, as the situation once again dawned on her.

“Thomas, we have to save him!” She insisted. “I can’t lose him again! Not when he only put himself in danger for me!”

 “That’s why I’m here.” Thomas looked at John Rolfe.  “I came to ask for your help. They’ve taken him to the Tower, and we all know the fate that befalls those accused of treason in the Tower.”

Rolfe swallowed, and nodded, slowly. “Yes.” He agreed. “He’ll be dead before sunrise.”

As he said this, the clock in the foyer chimed loudly, indicating that it was approaching three in the morning. Pocahontas could feel her eyelids growing more and more heavy with exhaustion, despite the fear that ignited every breath she took with life giving fire. She could feel the confines of her dress much more clearly than ever before, the tight corset pinching bruises into her ribcage, the sleeves itchy. She had discarded her shoes long before Thomas had shown up, and now they lay next to the door, where Mrs. Jenkins had placed them.

The three of them remained silent for a few moments more before Rolfe finally stood to his feet and looked at Thomas.

“Well then,” he said. “What are we waiting for?”

“So you’ll help me?” Thomas asked, his face lighting up. Pocahontas herself could not help but feel more and more hopeful. Was there possibly a way to pull this off, to save John Smith from a fate he did not deserve, to bring him back to her?  

Rolfe nodded. “Yes.” He said.

Thomas smiled. “Thank you.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Sort of.” Thomas admitted. “My cousin Adam was a guard for the Tower once, before he joined on as a merchant’s apprentice. He once tried to explain the layout of the Tower to me, but I was really young, so I’m not certain how much of the information I retained.”

Rolfe gave a small ‘hmm’ as he contemplated his next statement.

“I myself have a little knowledge of the Tower.” He said finally. “The best way for us to gain access would be through the water gate. If we can find a rowboat on a dock near the Tower, we can borrow it and use it to pass through the gate. This late at night, it’s doubtful the drawbridge would be down.”

“And how will we explain ourselves upon arrival?” Thomas inquired.

“Simple. You act as a prisoner, and I say that I have brought you here believing you to be an accomplice of John Smith’s. Once the guards grant us access, we knock two of them unconscious and steal their uniforms. From there, we should be able to walk about unnoticed, or at least unrecognized.”

Thomas nodded his approval. “Solid enough.” He concurred.

“Wonderful.” Rolfe said. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind giving Pocahontas and myself a moment alone, I’d be very grateful.”

“Of course.” Thomas stood to his feet, and Pocahontas followed closely behind. She reached out a hand and grasped Thomas’s arm, squeezing it gently.

“Thank you, Thomas.” She said softly. “For everything you’ve done for John.”

Thomas smiled at her and placed his hand over hers. “John is my best friend, my ally, and would do the same for me, and you would do no less. It’s the least _I_ can do for the two of you.”

Pocahontas smiled at him, and enveloped her friend in another quick hug before he turned and exited the room to wait for Rolfe by the front door.

Pocahontas turned to look at John Rolfe, his back to her and was shaking his head, his left hand rubbing his temples.

“John Rolfe…” She said, walking over to him and touching his shoulder. “Thank you.”

He turned and faced her, sighing as he did so. He smiled and placed a hand lovingly alongside her face.

“I’m doing this for you.” He said. “I want you to know that.”

“I know.” She whispered. “And you’ll never understand how much this means to me. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”

“I believe, my dear Pocahontas,” he said as he reached into his pocket and pulled her mother’s necklace from it, placing it around her neck. “That I _do_ understand.”

Pocahontas gently fingered the smooth white shell that hung from the blue beads, and tears welled up in her eyes. She knew he understood, and she knew that he did not hold it against her, or John Smith, that she did not love him as she knew he had grown to love her.

“We’ll be back as soon as we can.” Rolfe told her as he pulled a long, velvet cloak from a hook on the wall, placing it around his shoulders. He looked at her seriously, casting a glance over his shoulder at Thomas as he did so. “I warn you: we may be too late. We may not be able to reach him in time, but I make my promise to you that we will _try_. And even if we _are_ able to locate him in time, he may be severely injured, and unable to withstand the journey back here. We may get caught. Several variables must be taken into account. There is much as stake here.”

Pocahontas bit her bottom lip, struggling against the onslaught of newfound anxiety and nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. She swallowed, and nodded.

“I understand.” She said. “But please, try. Try and bring him back to me.”

“We will, Pocahontas.” Thomas assured her from his place across the room as he brought his hood up to cover his face. “John will hold on, for you, if nothing else. He won’t give up on you.”

Tears silently made their way down her face as Rolfe turned away from her, and the two men exited the house. She watched from the window as they walked down the pathway into the drive, where they took off running.

“Come, my dear.” She heard Mrs. Jenkins whisper softly to her as she took her hand. “Let’s get you something to eat and out of that awful dress, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: High ho! High ho! A rescuing we go! *whistles*


	6. Chapter 6

All was quiet as Thomas and John Rolfe made their trek through the dark, deserted streets of London, slowly making their way towards the looming Tower in the distance, where John Smith awaited them. As they reached the center of London, they slowed their run to a light jog, quickly seeking shelter in the shadows of an alleyway. John Rolfe leaned against the wall of building, while Thomas quickly surveyed their surroundings. After a few moments, he returned to the darkness of the shadows.

“We’re clear.” He informed Rolfe. “I think we’ve got a clear shot to the docks nearby.”

“Let’s hope there’s a rowboat.” Rolfe said, a slight huff to his breath. Thomas couldn’t help but smirk; obviously aristocracy was without fitness.

After a few more moments catching their breath and making sure the coast was clear, they made a break towards the direction of the docks. A wispy fog had begun to snake its tendrils throughout the streets nearest the Thames, and Rolfe felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise up.

He shook his head, telling himself not to be such a child afraid of the night. He was doing this for Pocahontas, because he loved her, and she loved _him_ , and he had promised to bring him back to her _._ He couldn’t let something as common and docile as fog send him scurrying home empty handed.

Still, the fog allowed for an air of mystery to surround the two men as they procured a small, slightly creaky rowboat. They quickly untied it from the docks, and jumped inside, each man operating an oar.

“So let’s go over this plan of yours again.” Thomas whispered as they rowed into a thick cloud of the fog.

“Alright,” Rolfe answered. “As soon as we reach the Tower and enter through the water gate, we’ll most likely be asked who we are and what our business is, especially this late into the night. I’m more likely to be recognized than you are, but the cloak should help hide my identity long enough for us to gain entry, and if that doesn’t work...Well, London is a big place. Only a few guards will be posted at the gate, so we should be able to handle them easily enough. Once we’ve subdued them, we’ll steal their uniforms and assume their identities. From there, we should be able to locate Smith and sneak him out.”

Thomas stole a glance at Rolfe from the corner of his eye, admiring the confident tone the older man possessed. While he wasn’t entirely doubtful of Rolfe’s proposition, he did doubt their ability to execute it properly and without conflict. John’s _life_ was on the line, and he wasn’t entirely sure he was willing to bet with those odds.

And Pocahontas. What would become of her if they failed? Thomas had been the one to break the news to her of John’s “death” nearly a year ago, and the look on her face – a look of astonishment, disbelief, and complete devastation – would haunt his memory for all eternity. He couldn’t bear to put her through that again.

For some time, the two men rowed onwards in silence, not daring a word, lest they be heard. Eventually, after a good half hour of rowing, the Tower just ahead, looking all the more menacing with the fog now completely obscuring the top spires from view.

“Alright, Brown,” Rolfe stopped rowing and rummaged around at the bottom of the boat, finding a spare rope underneath their feet. “Are you ready?”

Thomas nodded, and offered Rolfe his wrists, which the man promptly tied together, though not tight enough that Thomas couldn’t escape should the need arise.

Rolfe then took both oars, and the boat, slower this time, made its way onward.

Finally, the fog cleared somewhat, and the two men could clearly see the water gate into the belly of the Tower. Taking a deep breath, Thomas made sure his face was hidden, and they made their way inside.

“Halt!” A voice, sharp and clear, reverberated though the small space as Rolfe docked the rowboat. “Who goes there?!”

“John Jones, sir.” Rolfe lied, standing to his feet. “I bring a prisoner. I believe he is associated with John Smith.” He yanked on the rope around Thomas’s wrists, and the younger man winced slightly as the rope pulled tighter and chaffed at his skin.

The two guards stationed looked at them suspiciously. Rolfe prayed that neither of the men had encountered him before, and thus wouldn’t recognize him.

They didn’t.

“An ‘ow do you know he’s wit John Smith?” One of the guards, a man with a bushy reddish colored mustache, asked.

“I was out taking a stroll past the palace when I saw a cart driving off and the guards talking about John Smith being found and captured alive.” Rolfe explained as he climbed the small stairs to the floor of the Tower, pulling Thomas behind him. “After the wagon rode off, I caught this one still sneaking around, and figured he must have something to do with Smith. Can’t get anything out of him, though.”

The other guard nodded. “Very well.” He said. “John Smith is currently being interrogated, and Governor Ratcliffe is awaiting his submission in the courtyard. We’ll inform him of this, and if what you say is true, we will contact you.”

“Very good, sirs.” Rolfe said cheerfully. “Glad to know I may be helping bring another tyrant to justice.”

The mustached guard held out his hand for Rolfe to place the rope, the other coming up behind Thomas, noting his cloak curiously, and Rolfe saw their only chance.

“Now!”

Thomas spun around, catching the guard off guard, and pulled his hands from the rope that bound them, swiftly punching the guard in the cheek, Rolfe following suit in a similar manner with the other guard. Both fell like stones, and Thomas delivered a swift kick to their heads – not enough to kill them, but enough to ensure their unconsciousness for at least a few hours.

After making sure no other guards had heard them, they each grabbed a man and dragged him into a tiny cell at the far end of the room, where they proceeded to quickly strip them of their uniforms.

“Are you sure this will work?” Thomas asked as he carefully adjusted the armor, placing the helmet over his red hair. He felt a knot growing in his gut as he thought about his friend being interrogated, and the means of which he had no doubt were painful.

“It’s the only chance we have,” Rolfe answered as he bundled his fancy ball clothes tightly and tossed them into the bottom of the rowboat. He nodded towards the dark stairs at their right, which undoubtedly led upwards towards the holding cells and torture chambers. “We’ll go that way. We can’t run, or they’ll know something is up. We have to carry on as though we are making our rounds, nothing more. Once we find him, we’ll proceed from there.”

“Right, then.” Thomas said. “Let’s go.”

As they passed the door to the staircase, Rolfe spied a ring of keys hanging from a hook on the wall, and quickly grabbed them, securing them tightly to his belt.

They made their way up the stairs and into the hallway. Thick, heavy doors lined the hall in front of them on either side, though as they walked past, they noticed that most were unoccupied. As they rounded the corner, they were met with another pair of guards as they walked past. Thomas felt himself tense, despite his better judgment, and the paralyzing fear that he and Rolfe could be found out rushed down his spine like a wave crashing the shore. But as the guards gave them nothing more than a friendly nod as they passed, Thomas allowed himself to relax, letting out a sigh of relief.

If Rolfe noticed his internal struggles, he did not show it. Instead, his brown eyes were focused intently on the hall in front of him, every once in a while flicking to take in the occupants of the cells as they passed. None of them were John Smith.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Thomas whispered.

Rolfe shook his head. “Not a clue.” He admitted. “Just keep looking.”

They continued on down the hall, towards another set of stairs that would take them to the next level.

“We’re running out of time…” Thomas muttered as they advanced the floor. “The guard at the water gate said that John was being interrogated.”

Rolfe nodded in agreement. “You’re right.” He stopped, holding out his arm, blocking Thomas’s path. Thomas opened his mouth to ask him what was wrong, but Rolfe shushed him, his eyes narrowed and suspicious.

“Shh!” He hissed. “Listen!”

Thomas listened intently for a few seconds, but shook his head. “I don’t hear anything.”

Rolfe’s eyebrows furrowed, and he listened for a few more moments before he pointed to their right.

“This way!”

The two took off running, Thomas right behind Rolfe, towards the end of the hallway, where Rolfe made a right turn. Thomas was thankful that they encountered no other guards patrolling the area; he was certain that if they found them running, their charade would be shattered, and they, too, would be apprehended, and then what hope did John have?

Thomas nearly rammed into Rolfe as he suddenly came to a stop, once more holding out his arm, a finger to his lips to indicate quiet. Thomas straightened the helmet on his head, which had nearly fallen off in the force of the stop, and looked at Rolfe, peeved.

Just as he was about to open his mouth to ask Rolfe what the hell he thought he was doing, he heard it: a low groan, along with the sound of chains clattering, could be heard coming from the cell to their right. Rolfe pointed to it, and Thomas nodded. They calmly made their way forward, slowly, and Rolfe peered into the cell from the bars atop the door.

“Well?” Thomas asked.

Rolfe turned to look at him, his face solemn. “He’s inside.” He said, a grim undertone to his voice. “There’s blood everywhere, but he’s breathing.” He fiddled with the keys on the ring for a few moments before finally deciding on one, and fitted it into the lock. There was a click, and the door opened effortlessly.

John’s limp body was dangling from chains that hung from the rafters of the cell, kneeling in a thin puddle of blood. The tattered remains of his shirt hung around his shoulders, barely covering him, and even from where they stood, they could see that he was trembling as he heaved for breath, another groan of pain escaping him as he did so.

The two men entered the cell quickly, without bothering to close the door behind them completely. Thomas hurried to his friend’s aid while Rolfe peered outside the bars once more, making sure no one was within earshot, before he, too, joined Thomas at John’s side. To their horror, it became immediately clear as to where the source of the blood that stained the walls and floor originated.

John’s back was reduced to little more than a bloody slab, the wounds that stitched across his back oozing blood from beneath the scabs that begun to form, some of which were violently ripped from their seems at the smallest of movements that John made. Deep, dark bruises extended around his torso like the tentacles of a fearsome sea beast, and while none of the lashes were bleeding profusely, it was obvious that he lost a severe amount of blood in the process of the torture inflicted upon him, and they needed to get him out and to a place where he could rest and recover, and they needed to do it fast.

“Oh God, John?” Thomas whispered, slowly reaching out a hand and laying it on his friend’s shoulder, shaking gently. “John, it’s me. Wake up!”

John moaned again, and, with great difficulty, raised his head. His blonde hair, damp and stained various shades of red and orange from the blood that covered him, clung to his forehead and hung in his eyes as he opened them, blinking away the agony and confusion.

“Thomas,” he rasped.

“Aye, it’s me. We’re going to get you out of here.” Thomas nodded over his shoulder at Rolfe. His eyes roamed to the manacles adorning John’s swollen and bruised wrists, and he looked at Rolfe. “Is there a key on that ring that could fit in the lock? We need to get these off of him.”

Rolfe fiddled with the keys, finally locating one slightly smaller than the others, and he tried it in the lock of the cuffs. Thankfully, it fit, and the cuff opened. John instantly slumped forward, almost falling, moaning in pain as he did so, and Thomas quickly moved to support him as Rolfe worked the key into the other shackle.

“I’ve got you, John.” Thomas assured his friend, who seemed to be having a hard time withstanding consciousness as Thomas struggled to stabilize him without coming into contact with his injured back. “I need you to stay with me, alright? You’ve got to try and stand.”

“Ratcliffe…” John wheezed through clenched teeth as Thomas hoisted him upwards onto his feet, albeit shakily. “He’s…going to kill them…all of them…” He winced as his footing slipped in the blood on the floor, and Rolfe grabbed hold of his other arm to steady him.

“It’s alright. We’ll stop him.” Thomas grunted as the three men slowly began their way towards the door. “I promise.”

John shook his head, and gave a small cry of pain as another lash was pulled taut, squeezing his eyes closed so tightly fresh tears began to course down his face.

“Pocahontas…” He began.

“She’s safe.” Rolfe said as he readjusted John’s weight on his shoulders. “She’s back at my estate. She’s waiting for you.”

“Ratcliffe. He wants to…”

“He’s not going to harm her.” Rolfe said curtly, his hold on John tightening, cutting him off. “I won’t let him.”

He saw Thomas glance at him from the corner of his eye, but he chose to ignore the younger man’s knowing look, and they paused at the door of the cell for a brief moment to glance outside. Rolfe could neither see nor hear any other guards near them, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the situation could change within an instant if they weren’t prepared. He looked back at Thomas.

“The coast is clear,” he informed. “But if we encounter anyone, we should be prepared to offer some sort of excuse. It’s most likely the talk of the floor that he’s here. The last thing we need is to have a faulty alibi.”

Thomas nodded in agreement, but paused for a moment. “And what if we run into Ratcliffe? What then? He’s definitely likely to recognize me; he never did care for me much.”

Rolfe shrugged slightly. “We don’t have very many options within our arsenal, Brown.” He sighed. “We’re just going to have to be careful, quiet, and pray to the Lord above that no one stops us.”

He looked at John, whose blue eyes, while still glazed over slightly with shock, were becoming clearer as the situation began to settle itself within his hazy mind. For a brief moment, their gazes met, and Rolfe wondered, for the thousandth time that night alone, just _why,_ at its simplest core, he was here now, jeopardizing everything he had ever worked for, everything his family had ever stood for and had, for one man.

 _She loves him._ He reminded himself. _You’re doing this for **her.**_

“Smith,” he said. “You’re going to have to cooperate with us in this. We’re going to have to make this look legitimate.”

John said nothing, but the nod of approval told the men that he was willing to lend as much as he had left.

“Let’s go.” Thomas whispered. “We’re wasting time.”

He and Rolfe carefully settled John’s arms about their shoulders, and the three of them trudged forward into the hall, leaving the bloodstained cell behind them.

Slowly, but surely, they made their way down the stairs that would take them to the lower level of the Tower’s infrastructure, making sure to watch and listen for other guards as they did so. John, still having a hard time walking on numb legs, tried as best he could to go along with them, but the moment he straightened himself, he nearly fell as the lashes extending to every corner of his back pulled, many of those that had scabbed reopening. Fresh blood began to trickle down his skin, staining what little was left of his cotton shirt.

As he grappled for a hold on consciousness, one thought managed to wrestle its way forward: Pocahontas. She was safe, and she was waiting for him. And as hurt as he was, John was not deaf; he had heard the tone that Rolfe’s voice held when he had insisted that he would allow no harm to come to her. It was plain to him, familiar to him; Rolfe was in love with her.

Sparks of jealousy began to make their way into his mind, sending stabs of it into his heart, but he quickly pushed them away as a wave of nausea nearly overtook him, and groaned as he tasted the vomit mingling with the taste of rust at the back of his throat. Dizziness swelled around his head and into his eyes, and he stumbled, falling to his knees on the cobblestone floor. Thomas and Rolfe lurched forward in their struggle to sustain his sudden fall, catching him awkwardly.

After a few moments, the dizziness subsided, and John blinked away the dots swimming in his vision. Willing away the pain radiating into every bone in his body, he forced himself to stand.

“Are you alright, John?” Thomas whispered.

John shook his head as red blotches began to invade his vision, but before he could open his mouth to speak, a voice interrupted them from down the hall.

“You there!”

The three men looked up, startled, their eyes wide, to find a Tower guard approaching them, his face set and hard. He eyed Rolfe and Thomas suspiciously, and his eyes were drawn to John’s bloody appearance. John kept his face downcast, knowing that he was much more likely to be recognized, if he hadn’t already.

The guard finally reached them, and Thomas felt his heart quicken dangerously in his chest. He took a deep breath, reminding himself to remain calm and composed.

 _You’re doing your job,_ he reminded himself. _You’re a guard, doing your job._

“What do you think you’re doing?” The Tower guard asked them, his hand straying to the hilt of his sword. “John Smith is to be interrogated until he agrees to cooperate.”

Rolfe stood up straight and gestured to John.

“Escorting this prisoner from the premises.” He explained. “We have orders from the King. He wishes to speak with Smith himself.”

The guard’s eyes narrowed, and he looked at John. “Why is he not properly restrained?”

Thomas winced slightly, and cast a glance at Rolfe, whose face remained calm as he said, “I do not believe him to be fit enough to put up much fight.” He said smoothly. “Besides, how far can he possibly go?”

The guard, after a moment’s consideration, nodded.

“True.” He agreed. “However, why would the King wish to see him on such notice after having just sent him to be interrogated? Should it not be Governor Ratcliffe that escorts him to the palace?”

“Governor Ratcliffe has already been informed and is awaiting further orders.” Thomas finally spoke, thankful that his voice did not falter as he did so. He was beginning to grow less anxious and more concerned for his friend’s wellbeing as the conversation dragged on. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we have a mission to complete. Wouldn’t want to keep the King waiting, now would we?”

“Of course,” the guard stepped aside, allowing them room to pass. “My apologies. Good day to you.”

“And you.” Rolfe replied, hoisting John upwards once more, minding that he did so carefully so as not to agitate the wounds.

With that, the three men resumed their trek forward, down the hall and away from the guard’s prying eyes and suspicious mind.

After some time, they finally reached the staircase that would take them back to the water gate. John heaved for breath, and his companions released their holds on his arms for a brief moment to allow him a chance to compose himself.

“We’re almost there.” Rolfe whispered. “Once we reach the lower level, we can climb into the boat we left and be on our way. Not much further now.”

John nodded, clutching at his ribcage, his eyes now much clearer than they had been previously, though still holding signs of obvious shock and exhaustion.

“And…then?” He questioned between breaths.

“We return to my estate, where we will tend to the wounds you’ve sustained and go from there.” Rolfe said. “We need to hurry. It’ll be dawn soon, and once Ratcliffe gets wind that you’ve escaped, he’s bound to come looking for you.”

Thomas shook his head.

“Not likely.” He said. “Ratcliffe is much more likely to lie than to admit defeat.”

John nodded his approval. “Thomas is…right.” He wheezed. He moaned as pain once again crashed into him as though being struck by a bucket of cold water, and he fought the urge to be sick, clutching his stomach tighter.

Rolfe sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“We’re running out of time.” He said, mostly to himself. “We need to get out of here.”

Once more the two of them took hold of John’s arms, and they slowly descended the stairs until they finally emerged at the water gate. To their relief, upon a quick glance, the two guards that Rolfe and Thomas had subdued were still blissfully unconscious, unaware of the treasonous act that was being performed around them. Thomas quickly retrieved his cloak from the bottom of the rowboat that still sat at the dock, patiently awaiting their return, and draped it around John.

“So that anyone who sees us will think we’re escorting a drunkard home and nothing more.” He explained when Rolfe gave him an inquisitive look as he quickly disposed of the guard’s uniform and changed back into his own clothing. “And to hide the lashes on his back so that no one becomes suspicious.”

Rolfe shook his head, and the two men helped to gently assist John into the boat.

Once they were certain the coast was clear, Rolfe untied the rope tethering the boat to the dock, and shoved off, quickly taking an oar.

Their mission complete, the three men quietly slipped into the dissipating London fog, just as the first rays of sunlight began to grace the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Rolfe and Thomas take John back to Rolfe's estate to treat his wounds, and Pocahontas is unprepared for the reunion she faces.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratcliffe discovers John's escape, and he is none too pleased. Meanwhile, Thomas and Rolfe finally make it back to the estate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first off, WOW I AM A TERRIBLE PERSON. This took _forever_ to write, and for anyone waiting for this, I am so sorry. I've had a bit of a busy life recently, and several things have happened (big and small) since I last updated. I apologize. My fandoms change face near constantly, and when I commit to writing a new fic, sadly, sometimes my older fics get pushed to the wayside. This one has always been on my list to update first, but sometimes...yeah. 
> 
> Anyway! My inspiration to continue and finish this fic reemerged recently in the form of the friend I'm writing it for (Kayla; she's like my sister) threatening to stand over me while I'm sleeping every night until I finish it. (Which would be impressive, since I have a loft bed.) But, she knows where I live, and what window is mine, soooo...not taking any chances! ;) 
> 
> This chapter is short; it rang in at just over 2200 words. I'm sorry, but when I tried to continue onto the next bit, it didn't fit with the flow of the story, nor with the chapter, so I decided to cut it in half and write the rest as the next chapter. It will be out soon! 
> 
> CHAPTER SONG: "The Sleeper" (also known as "The Fish") by Disparition.

Governor Ratcliffe was not known to be a patient man, nor was he known as a forgiving man. He was abrasive in even the most common of societal settings, but incredibly impertinent when irritated in private.

Needless to say, he was in no way pleased with the amount of time it was taking the guards to break Smith. Not one bit. He had been waiting in the courtyard of the Tower for several hours now; the wine from the ball was beginning to settle into the pit of his stomach, and the call of a good sleep was hard to ignore. Surely Smith should be talking by now? It had only taken twenty or so lashes to get him talking last time. Ratcliffe doubted it would take forty to convince his tongue to loosen further.

He walked swiftly through the halls towards the cell where he had left Smith to the mercy of the guards. He flicked out the key to the cell from his pocket, and rolled it between his fingers, relishing the power it provided him. Smith was _his_ , finally, and he could do as he pleased with him.

Killing him was obviously high on Ratcliffe’s list; making sure Smith never saw another sunrise was tempting, but the prospect of making him suffer was much more appealing. Ratcliffe knew that manipulation was the easiest way to break someone, to cause them to become their own downfall. Physical pain was temporary; emotional pain tended to linger.

Ratcliffe was not an idiot. He knew exactly why that fool had been at the Hunt Ball: that savage. Had she not been there, he had no doubt that Smith would not have shown himself in such a manner as he had, with such a lack of planning and execution. 

Of course, he supposed that he should be thanking the uncivilized wench. Had she not been there, indeed, Smith would not have dared enter the palace grounds, and thus, would not be here now, Ratcliffe’s to control. She had unknowingly played Smith into a game of which he could not emerge at the end alive. And this time, she could not get in the way of doing away with him, as she had last time; a death via the chief of her murderous, thieving people would have been much more clean and convenient, but Ratcliffe could not deny the allure of doing away with the bastard himself. It would be so much more than satisfying.

He turned the corner that would lead him to Smith’s cell, and he chuckled darkly as he neared the door. Despite his annoyance at the persistence of time in which it was taking, he knew that if nothing else, Smith would still be just as he wanted him; weak, defenseless, and at his mercy. Mercy that he did not possess, and mercy that he would not show.

The first clue that he was presented that something was wrong was the fact that the door to Smith’s cell was slightly ajar as he neared it. It was not like the guards of the Tower to be so careless, even thought Ratcliffe was very well aware that there was no way that Smith could escape even if the door had been left wide open; the shackles that had been placed around his wrists would have prevented that. Still, it was a mild frustration, if nothing else.

The second clue was the complete lack of sound from within the cell. Surely, if it were taking this long, Smith should still be as Ratcliffe had left him, crying out in pain as another lash was delivered? There was no sound of a whip being cracked, so he knew that at the very least, the whipping had, momentarily, been halted.

Still, Ratcliffe squared his shoulders as he neared the cell door, taking in a deep breath, and smiled wickedly as he set a hand upon the wood and pushed inwards.

“Are you ready to talk, Smith?” He asked as he entered. “Surely by now you must be willing to—”

He stopped still when he was met with not with Smith, kneeling in a pool of his own blood and ready to tell Ratcliffe anything he wished to know, but instead by empty chains hanging from the ceiling, and Smith nowhere to be found. Bloody footprints – there appeared to be two, if not three sets of them; it was hard to tell completely – trailed from inside the cell into the hallway beyond, but disappeared within a few footsteps outside the cell walls, leaving Ratcliffe without an idea of where they led.

One thing was absolutely clear, however: Smith had escaped, but he had not done it alone.

“ _GUARDS!_ ” Ratcliffe roared, enraged, his voice echoing through the quiet din of the Tower halls like thunder from an approaching storm. “ _Guards, present yourselves immediately!_ ”

Within moments, three guards burst into the cell, very nearly stumbling over each other in their haste, before they stood to attention.

“Governor Ratcliffe,” one addressed.

“Would any of you witless imbeciles,” Ratcliffe seethed. “Care to explain to me just what the meaning of this is?!” He gestured to the empty room. “Where is Smith?!”

The guards glanced anxiously at each other, and Ratcliffe bit down on the impulse to shoot them all where they stood with the pistol he had hidden in his shirt. Surely that would cause nothing but further trouble.

Finally, one of the guards spoke.

“It appears that he is not here, sir.” He said, somewhat shakily.

“I can _see_ that.” Ratcliffe said through his teeth. “What I wish to know is _where_ he’s gone! And why he was left alone in the first place!”

“He lost consciousness, sir.” The guard answered. “We opted to allow him time to…regain functionality before continuing on with the interrogation.”

“Why was I not informed immediately?!” Ratcliffe demanded. “You should have reported directly to me in the event that he lost the ability to continue with the interrogation, and in failing to do so, you have committed a direct act of insubordination! I should have your _heads_ for this!”

“We believed you to be aware of the situation, sir.” Another guard spoke up, palms out in surrender. “That’s what I was told when I…” He trailed off, his face blanching, as though he had seen a specter in the night. He didn’t dare glance at his comrades.

“When you _what_?!” Ratcliffe snapped. “Spit it out, man!”

The guard was quiet for a moment, his expression harrow. Ratcliffe’s fingers unconsciously brushed against the butt of his pistol; just one shot, cleanly between the eyes, would see that this man never got the chance to annoy him again. He reigned himself back with the bitter reminder that such a deed would deem the guard utterly useless to him in telling him what it was he needed to know.

“Well,” said the guard after a moment further’s hesitation, and he swallowed thickly. “I was doing my rounds about half an hour ago, when I saw two of our men taking Smith down the corridor. I stopped ‘em an’ asked what they was up to, and the one said they was taking Smith to speak with the King, on the King’s orders, sir. They also said you had been informed and was waitin’ for ‘em at the palace.”

“Well, then,” Ratcliffe said through clenched teeth. “It appears as though they lied, does it not?”

The guard before him was physically trembling, and Ratcliffe once again had to remind himself that killing him would not gain him anything.

“Forgive me, sir,” the guard said finally, falling one knee and bowing his head before Ratcliffe. “I did not know.”

“And you did not think to investigate further, did you?” Ratcliffe reprimanded sharply. “I should have you flayed alive for your act of incompetence, but instead, I will have you disposed of your position. Get out of my sight before I rethink my decision.”

The guard wasted no time scrambling to his feet and fleeing down the corridor. Ratcliffe watched him go, his fingers inching at his side to reach for his pistol and shoot the man in the back, but the armor he wore would have prevented it had he attempted in the first place, so instead he turned towards the remaining guards.

“You there!” He barked at the two remaining guards, who all immediately stood to attention. “You’re not to speak a word of this to anyone, am I understood?! If anyone asks, you’re to tell them that John Smith died in interrogation, but not before he gave us the answers we sought. I’ll not have this interfering with my quest to conquer the gold of the New World for King James. Understood?!”

“Yes, sir!” The guards said in unison.

“And if I heard one word that you’ve slipped and told anyone otherwise, I’ll have your heads for my wall. Got it?!”

“Yes, sir!” The guards repeated, but this time, Ratcliffe could hear the strain of fear in their tones, and he knew they’d take his threat seriously.

“Good.” He said, nodding at them. “Now, let’s discuss the plot in detail so that there’s no holes, shall we?”

...oOo...

 

The trudge back towards Rolfe’s estate had been long and arduous, but they had made it, nonetheless, exhausted, on edge, and reeking of sweat and blood, but safely. The few people Rolfe and Thomas had passed along the way had not even given them more than a second glance as they continued to help their incapacitated comrade along, a hood up to hide his identity, and if anyone had noticed the blood that was beginning to soak through the back of the cloak, they said nothing and hurried along their own way.

Upon reaching Rolfe’s estate, they wasted no time ushering John inside. Rolfe immediately called for Mrs. Jenkins, who came rushing into the living room in her nightdress and nightcap.

“Oh heavens!” She explained upon seeing the two of them, the haggard form of John between them. She rushed forward to help them. “What happened?!”

“Interrogation.” Rolfe grunted as they gently steered John, who was teetering on the edges of consciousness, towards the kitchens. “Ratcliffe had a whip taken to him.”

Mrs. Jenkins’ eyes flashed. “A barbaric punishment.” She said, her voice uncharacteristically hard. “How many lashes?”

“We aren’t sure.” Thomas answered. He was helping John ease down into a chair next to a small table, his friend hissing in pain.

“I lost count.” John rasped. “Somewhere around fourteen.”

“Mrs. Jenkins,” Rolfe said, turning to his housekeeper, his face serious. “He’s injured quite badly, and needs medical attention immediately. However, due to the nature of his being here, it is best that we keep this between us, and it shouldn’t leave the grounds of this estate. If the King finds out that he has escaped and we were the ones that helped him, it will be the noose for us all.”

The old woman nodded. “What would you have me do, Johnny?” Mrs. Jenkins questioned.

“I’m going to run down to the apothecary and purchase enough vials of ointment and salves to help with the pain as I can without being suspicious as soon as he is settled, but for now, I need you to run a bath, cold water. We need to clean the wounds and dress them as best we can, as soon as possible.”

Mrs. Jenkins nodded. “Consider it done.”

“Thank you.” He rubbed a hand over his face. He lowered his voice. “How is she?” He dared.

“Sleeping, the poor dear.” Mrs. Jenkins answered. “Finally nodded off about an hour ago, at the window, waiting for your return. I had Utte carry her to bed.”

“I think it best we allow her to rest, for now.” Rolfe said, quietly.

Mrs. Jenkins nodded. “I think that’s best. The dear girl exhausted.” She looked around Rolfe at John as Thomas began to help him peel his bloody and tattered shirt from his back, having already discarded the cloak on the floor. “No doubt she will be very upset when she sees what’s happened to him.”

“Pocahontas,” John gasped as his shirt pulled at a particularly sensitive lash. “She…she’s in trouble. Ratcliffe, he’s…”

“Hush now,” Mrs. Jenkins said gently as she quickly made her way over to where he was sitting to help Thomas and get a good look at the lashings. “She’s safe, don’t you worry. The poor dear, she’s been worried sick since your capture. She’ll be overjoyed to see you again, once we get you cleaned up.”

“No harm will befall her here.” Rolfe assured him.

“That’s right.” Mrs. Jenkins agreed. “Now, dear, you just sit right there while I draw a bath, alright?”

John, his vision still hazy at the edges, the pain threatening to capsize him into a sea of darkness, nodded.

“John Smith,” he said, holding out a hand weakly. Mrs. Jenkins shook it, very gently, his hand dwarfing her tiny one.

“Mrs. Jenkins.” She replied, smiling. “Nice to finally put a face to the name. Now then,” she looked at Thomas. Her voice held an edge of authority as she took control of the challenge presented before her. “Here’s what I need you to do…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Pocahontas awakens to find that her world has once again been turned on its head.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not sure what it is about being in Arkansas that gives me inspiration to write this story, but it really _does_. Like, this is the third trip to Arkansas I've taken in which I've written for this story, and have felt the real inspiration to do so. Maybe it's a lack of my usual distractions? Or maybe it's that I wrote _**A LOT**_ of Pocahontas fanfiction while in Arkansas staying with my Gran for the summer when I was 13...I'm not sure. Either way, hooray new chapter!  
>  (Kayla, please call off the attack dogs and the ninjas. Here's your chapter.) 
> 
> I did some pretty extensive research into the use of opium during the 17th century to aid with pain relief, so I feel quite confident in the information I've conveyed in this chapter, but if I am incorrect, please let me know (and send links!). It's actually pretty interesting! I also never thought "recovering from being whipped" and "how to treat whip lashings" would ever be something I'd type into Google, and thank G-d I have my own computer, because I am more than certain my parents would be concerned if we still shared a desktop if they checked that search history. 
> 
> Anyway! Enjoy! 
> 
> CHAPTER SONG: "Feeling Invincible" by Skillet & "Stitches" by Shawn Mendes

 

Pocahontas awoke slowly.

At first, she was almost unsure as to where she was. It took her a moment to realize that she was cocooned in a nest of lush bedding, nearly drowning her in blankets and pillows. It truly was comfortable, though before tonight she had never slept in one before. She was accustomed to the bedding of her people, the warm and comfortable furs upon the mats of their huts, the glowing embers of the fire casting shadows on the walls. Meeko and Percy were curled at her feet, Percy snoring loudly, and Flit had nestled himself into the soft fur between Meeko’s ears.

She wasn’t sure how she’d ended up there in the first place. Uttamatomakkin must have carried her here, because the last thing she remembered was sitting at the window, anxiety gnawing away at her resolve, as she waited for—

In an instant, Pocahontas threw the covers off of her body and jumping to her feet, jarring her animal companions from their peaceful slumber, but Pocahontas didn’t notice as she practically flew to the door, and threw it open.

She rushed out into the hallway, and crashed headlong into a solid human body. She reeled back, and nearly fell, had the body she’d hit not reached out and grabbed her, steading her.

It was Thomas.

“Pocahontas, as you all right?!” He asked.

“Thomas!” Pocahontas threw herself at her friend, catching him in a fierce hug. “I’m so glad to see that you’re back safely!”

She withdrew swiftly, and looked at Thomas, searching his face for the worst.

“Thomas, where is John Smith?! Did you make in time?! Did you find him?! Is he alive?!”

“Easy, Pocahontas,” Thomas said, placing his hands on her shoulders, silencing her. “Calm down. We got to him in time. He’s alive.”

Something about his expression told her there was something he wasn’t telling her. If he was alive, then where was he? She had hoped to awaken to find him waiting for her, a smile on his handsome face, just as she had dreamed every night for the past two years. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

“But…is he alright, Thomas?” She pressed, suddenly very unsure if she wanted an honest answer.

Thomas sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well…we got to him in time…but not before Ratcliffe got to him first.” He explained, slowly. “He whipped him, pretty badly, Pocahontas. Took the skin right off his back.”

Pocahontas knew she must have paled, because Thomas squeezed her arms, steadying her again.

“He’ll live, Pocahontas,” he assured her. “He’s one of the toughest people I know, and one hell of a fighter. But he’s going to be in pain for a while. It will take a while to heal, and he’ll bear the scars the rest of his life. But he’s going to live.”

She felt tears welling in her eyes, threatening to fall, and she bit her lip to keep them at bay. She took in a shaky breath and nodded. She rubbed her arms to soothe the gooseflesh she felt rising there, and swallowed the lump at the back of her throat. She looked back at Thomas.

“Can I see him?”

Thomas smiled at her, if a bit sadly. “Of course. He’s sleeping right now; John Rolfe ran to the apothecary to procure some drugs to help with the pain, so he’s resting, if only for now, but of course you can.”

He put his arm around her shoulder, and led her down the hall. They stopped outside a door, slightly ajar. Thomas put his hand on the door and pushed it open.

“Be careful,” he warned. “He’s in a good deal of pain. Try not to let him strain himself if he wakes up, okay?”

She nodded, and Thomas stepped aside to let her in.

Pocahontas slipped into the dim room, the curtains pulled tight to allow very little light to enter. She slowly made her way forward towards the bed at the far end of the large room, her bare feet making no sound at all on the smooth wood floors.

She gasped when she felt something cold press against the back of her ankle, and she looked down to find Percy looking up at her, his head cocked to the side inquisitively. Meeko, as usual, was not far behind his companion, and Flit buzzed in the air next to them. They must have slipped behind her through the cracked door.

“Percy!” She scolded quietly, but sternly. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

Percy whimpered guiltily, and his tail lowered in dejection. She sighed, and bent down to pick him and Meeko up.

“I’m sorry.” She apologized, nuzzling her companions’ heads. “I don’t mean to be short with you. I’m just worried, that’s all.” She turned her head and looked back towards the bed, at the outline of the figure sleeping there. “This isn’t how I imagined our reunion would go.”

Pocahontas gently deposited her companions back onto the floor, and ventured forward to the side of the bed.

John Smith lay on his stomach in the plush comfort of the bed where he’d been placed. He was sleeping, if only just barely, with his face pressed into the pillow, his breaths shallow and pained. Though the room was cool, his hair was soaked in sweat, the blond strands sticking to the back of his neck. The blankets had been pulled up only to cover the lower half of his body, and Pocahontas gasped when she saw the tight bandages that covered his back. Though she could not see them due to the bandages, she could tell that what Thomas had said was indeed horribly true: John had been whipped, and judging from the amount of blood seeping through the gauzy cotton, she could tell there were a lot of them. The remaining exposed flesh of his shoulders and parts of his sides were bruised, and less severe lashes were raised in angry red welts. She pressed a hand to her mouth to silence the sobs she felt boil up through her, and she stepped back, away from the sleeping body of the man she loved as the tears finally fell.

 _This is all my fault,_ she thought miserably to herself. She choked on a sob.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and she turned to find Thomas, who looked at her sympathetically, and nodded over his shoulder, indicating she should follow. She allowed him to escort her from the dark room into the hallway, where he drew her into another comforting hug. She buried her face into Thomas’s chest and wept.

“It’s my fault, Thomas,” she whispered. “It’s all my fault.”

“Hush, now,” Thomas said softly. “This isn’t your fault in the slightest.”

“But it is.” She insisted. “If I hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t been at the Hunt Ball at all, then he never would have snuck in to see me, and maybe if I hadn’t made Ratcliffe so angry…” She shuddered, and Thomas hugged her tighter.

“Pocahontas,” he said. “None of this is your fault. John knew full and well the risks when he decided to sneak into the palace, and he did them anyway, because he felt that they were worth it, if only to see that you were alright. He wouldn’t want you to blame yourself for this when it was his own decision to be there. You didn’t even know the man was alive at the time!”

Pocahontas shook her head. “All I have ever done is sentence him to a life of misery,” she cried. “All he has ever done is love me, and all I have done by loving him in return is doom him to pain and suffering time and time again.”

“Hey,” Thomas pulled her back, and looked her in the eye. “Don’t ever think that, Pocahontas. If there’s one thing I know about my friend, it’s how much he _loves_ you, how much he absolutely adores you. He has told me time and time again how _happy_ and _grateful_ he is to have met you, how he wouldn’t trade any of it for anything in the world, even the pain. John could never blame you for any of this, and he’d be beside himself if he knew that you blamed yourself.”

Pocahontas sniffed, and wiped away some of the tears on the back of her hand. She knew Thomas was right, deep in her heart, but she could not seem to shake herself of the guilt she still felt.

“Still,” she said softly. “I feel so guilty that there isn’t anything I can do to ease his pain.”

Thomas tried to offer her a reassuring smile. “Rolfe should be back any minute now from the apothecary,” he said. “He’ll have something that will help, I’m sure.” He looked back into the room where John still slept. “Until then, I think it’s best we let him rest. He’s…he’s been through a lot.”

Pocahontas nodded in agreement, and looked back towards John.

“Can I stay with him?” She asked. “I’d…I’d like to be there, when he wakes up.”

Thomas smiled, and nodded.

“I think he’d like that.” He said.

He led her back into the room, where he pulled one of the plush chairs from beside the fireplace over to the bedside, close enough that she could reach out and hold John’s hand, if she so desired when he awoke. He lit the candle on the small table next to the bed, and parted the curtains just enough to allow cheerful sunlight to filter in, without it shining on the bed. Pocahontas settled herself into the cozy chair, pulling her legs up underneath her, and Meeko and Percy jumped up to join her in her lap, Flit alighting on the table beside her.

“I’ll go and make you some tea, if you like.” Thomas offered. “Mrs. Jenkins has gone to catch a bit of sleep, since she was up all night, and she helped us take care of John as soon as we returned, but I can make a somewhat decent cup.”

Pocahontas smiled for what felt like the first time in ages and nodded.

“That would be wonderful, thank you.” She said.

Thomas gave her a single nod, and turned to walk out the door, leaving Pocahontas alone with her thoughts as she gazed at the sleeping form of her love, and contemplated the future that stretched out ahead of her.

...oOo...

 

John slept rather peacefully for another few hours, during which Pocahontas never left his side, even when Rolfe returned from the apothecary, and came to find her.

“Thomas told me you’d awakened.” He said softly as he came to stand beside her. He pulled several small glass bottles with corked tops and squat jars full of creamy pastes from a satchel at his side, and sat them on the table. Pocahontas reached out and picked up one of the bottles, and uncorked the top. She sniffed it. A pungent, sour odor that made her eyes water assaulted her nose, and she immediately replaced the cork.

“What is that?” She asked.

“Alcohol.” John Rolfe explained. “To clean the wounds and ward off infection.”

“And this?” She picked up one of the squat jars of cream.

“A salve made from clove oil, saffron, and cinnamon.”

“And this?” She picked up a small bottle with what looked like seeds the size of ants inside.

“Opium, to help with the pain, should the opiate salve not be strong enough.” Rolfe reached out and took the bottle from her. “I have seen men become wasted fools on opium, prone to fits when they can no longer obtain it. It’s worse than genever, if you ask me. I won’t give it to him unless we’ve no other choice.” He tucked the bottle behind a few of the others, and pointed to the second squat jar. “That is a salve made from crushed opiate seeds. I’m sure it will be just as effective.”

“In my homeland,” Pocahontas recounted. “We crush the bark of willow trees to make salves to ease pain.” She looked at John Smith’s – for now – peaceful face. “I gave him some the bark when he was shot two years ago to bring back with him, to help with the pain. I doubt he still has any of it, and I didn’t think to gather any from Grandmother Willow before I left. I didn’t think I would have use of it.”

John Rolfe nodded, solemnly. “You could not have known, Pocahontas,” he comforted. He pulled a small package tied with paper and string from the satchel as well. “Clean bandages,” he explained when Pocahontas looked at it curiously.

She sighed, and looked back at the sleeping face of John Smith. “I feel so useless,” she said. “I hate to see him in such pain.”

Rolfe took her hand in his, and squeezed it gently. “I know.” He said softly. “But I am sure that your presence alone will be enough to give him the spirits he needs to recover.”

“Thank you.” Pocahontas said. She gestured to the medicines on the table. “For doing this for him, and for us. I will never be able to repay you for your kindness.”

“It is only what is right.” She saw Rolfe swallow thickly, his brown eyes sad, and again she felt the pang of guilt stab her in the heart at the sadness she knew she’d caused him, if inadvertently. She looked away from his gaze, back at John.

Rolfe patted her hand. “I’ll leave you for now.” He said. “I am going to try and rest for a bit. I haven’t slept since the night before last. Mrs. Jenkins should be up within the hour, and if you need anything, do not hesitate to call for her, and to wake me, if need be. Alright?”

Pocahontas nodded. “Thank you.”

With a final squeeze and a small smile, Rolfe turned and walked from the room, leaving her alone once more with the slumbering John Smith, and her animal friends. She sighed as she uncrossed her legs to stretch them a bit, and she scratched behind Meeko’s ears; the raccoon purred delightedly.

She closed her eyes, and was just about to nod off when she heard John Smith begin to stir on the bed next to her. Within an instant, she was out of the chair and at his side. He groaned in agony as he rolled onto his side, his brow furrowing, and his face formed into a tight grimace. Instinctively, Pocahontas reached out a hand and gently touched his cheek to try and soothe him.

No sooner had her cool palm made contact with his flushed skin did his hand suddenly lash out and grab her wrist in a vice-like grip, his eyes flying open, wide and blazing in alarm like a frightened animal, cornered by hunters. Pocahontas gasped, too shocked to move. A second later, realizing what he’d done, and just who it was beside him, John released her, and he opened his mouth to say her name, only to be met with a bought of harsh coughing instead.

Pocahontas reached out once more and brushed some of the damp hair from his forehead, allowing the golden strands to fall through her fingers like water.

“Shhh, it’s alright.” She soothed. “You’re safe. It’s alright.”

He still fought to catch his breath, and he pressed his face into her hand, his eyes tightly closed, a pained groan escaping his gritted teeth. He routed the sheets of the bed into the fist of one hand, while the other came up to grip her own hand as though it were the only tether he had in the world.

She swallowed the lump that was quickly forming in the back of her throat, trying hard to hold back the sobs that threatened to wrench their way forward once more. She leant forward and pressed her lips to his forehead, and she felt him begin to relax at her touch, finally beginning to catch his breath.

“I love you.” She heard him whisper hoarsely. His voice, usually so mellow and warm, a voice she had missed every single day, a voice she had heard calling to her in her dreams every single night for the past two years, was riddled with agony and cracks, as though he had been screaming.

She realized, bitterly, that he probably had been.

“I know.” She whispered back, pulling away to look at him. His blue eyes were locked on hers, never wavering for a second. She couldn’t stop the tears that began to fall as she tried to smile. Despite the circumstances, she could not help but feel so much joy at having been finally reunited with the man she was sure she’d lost forever the moment she’d seen him fall at her father’s feet. “I love you, too. I never stopped.”

“I tried sending letters,” he said, swallowing. “But after…after everyone thought I was dead, I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk…putting you in danger.”

“Shhh,” Pocahontas reached out and pressed a finger against his lips. “I know. Thomas told me everything. I understand.”

“I wanted to.” John pressed, gritting his teeth when he moved and pulled at the bandages. “I thought of you every day.”

“I missed you so much.” Pocahontas whispered, and she squeezed his hand. “When they told me that you were dead, I…” She trailed off.

“I’m sorry,” John said.

“We’re together again,” Pocahontas smiled. “And that’s what matters.”

“Pocahontas, Ratcliffe, he—” John let go of her hand to attempt to sit up, going completely pale as he pulled once again at the lashings. Pocahontas, acting on pure instinct, was at his side in a second and was gently supporting him, to prevent him from falling back onto the bed and injuring himself further.

“John!” She said urgently. “Don’t move so quickly; you’ll pull the cuts.”

Still, John continued to try and push himself up. “You don’t understand,” he said, hissing in pain and clenching his teeth. “Ratcliffe. He’s going to...he’s going to _kill all of them_ , Pocahontas. All of your people, unless…unless we can stop him.”

For a moment, blind terror threatened to overtake her as her vision swam with the news John had just given her, and she felt her blood run cold in her heart, completely freezing her for a few solid seconds.

Ratcliffe couldn’t possibly hold enough power to completely destroy her entire people…could he?

“John, what do you mean?” She demanded of her injured beau. She sat down next to him on the bed.

John looked at her. “Last night, when he was…” Pocahontas could see the way he chewed on the word in his mouth, as though it were bitter and tasted of poison, “When he was _whipping_ me, he told me that he sets sail for Virginia in a week’s time, with an entire armada of men to wipe out your entire people, and take back the gold he’s still convinced your people have. He’s convinced King James that your people have the gold and that the only way to get it is to take it, by any means necessary.”

“But there is no gold!” Pocahontas cried.

John nodded. “I know.” He said. “But the King will not listen to us, not when he’s had Ratcliffe whispering lies in his ear for two years.”

“We have to stop him!” Pocahontas felt herself beginning to slip into a mild panic. “We cannot let him get away with this!”

“And we won’t.” A voice said from the doorway. They both turned their heads to see John Rolfe, closely followed by Uttamatomakkin and Thomas, enter the room.

“John Rolfe!” Pocahontas said.

Rolfe walked further into the room, and the look that crossed his face for just a split second when he looked at the two of them sitting side by side was not lost to Pocahontas. Thomas grinned as he neared John and held out his hand to his friend, who returned his grin, if weakly, and shook it.

“Glad to see you awake, John.” Said Thomas. “How are you feeling? How’s the pain?”

“What pain?” John’s grin widened, and Pocahontas’s heart flipped in her chest when she saw the mischievous, good-natured glint return to his eye that she loved so much. “I’ve been in worse pain than this.”

Thomas laughed. “Now that I believe.”

Pocahontas turned her attention back to John Rolfe, the moment sobering considerably.

“John Rolfe, we have to stop Ratcliffe.” She insisted. “He’s going to…”

“He isn’t going to get the chance to even think of harming your people.” John Rolfe interrupted her, stern and confidently. “Because we’re going to stop him.”

“How?” Pocahontas asked, the anxiety and fear for her beloved people rising. She rung her hands.

“Simple.” Thomas explained. He nodded to John. “We implore the King to listen to us, and we uncover the lies Ratcliffe has told him, and proceed from there to stop Ratcliffe in his tracks.”

“But how will we do that?”

“Me.” John said, the answer dawning on him. “You’re going to use me to expose Ratcliffe’s lies.”

John Rolfe nodded.

“Word on the street is, John Smith was discovered to be alive and well after over a year of believing him to be dead, after he broke into the palace and was found sneaking about the halls during the Hunt Ball. He was taken to the Tower from there, and died early this morning from wounds sustained during interrogation, where he admitted to all charges against him and the Crown.” Rolfe recited. “It’s all over London.” He looked at John, somewhat amused. “You’re a dead man less than a day after your resurrection, Mr. Smith.”

“For the best.” John nodded. “Then that means Ratcliffe has told the King that I’m dead, and that I told him that Pocahontas’s people have the gold.”

“It’s also likely he’s told him that the only way to get it is to go to war.” Thomas added. “The bloodier the better.” His eyes flicked to the bandages around his friend’s torso. “Speaking of which, we should probably change those.”

Rolfe nodded his agreement. “Agreed. In the meantime, Mrs. Jenkins has risen, and I’ll have her put together lunch for us all.” He regarded them all seriously. “There is much to discuss.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: John begins the long road to recovery following his injuries, and he and Pocahontas catch up on the past two years.


End file.
